A

Botany 

for 

Silk 

Blossoms 

Half of me lives 

on its own now,

tired of being shaped

by what the other 

half might give. 

In fact, we 

no longer

use the word “I”

without irony.

We’re both too

full of ourselves.

Ours is 

a gardener’s ethic,

rising early 

to work 

with the light.

I weed my mind

using imaginary tools

because I know that

Hope is a garden

and attention, 

a spade.

Between us 

we are both 

botanist and flower;

planter and blade.

But the other half

is vaguely narcoleptic,

prone to bouts of sleep,

with his hidden blueprint;

a negative of roots

beneath ground

whose receptivity

leave passageways 

open

so that anything

might arrive.

That said,

the dark brings out

its dead, a village

roused by plague.

So much death

is sure to make 

things grow

in spades.

If daylight’s

a natural disinfectant, 

I am my own medicine.

Just as lavender 

needs contact

for its sap 

to reach out

through needles

into thin air,

we feel with fingers

a lingering bent;

unlike silk

what is alive

can flower

and write

our name

in it's scent.

All plants

take the weather 

personally,

as if simpatico.

Perhaps they practice 

hearing clouds

arriving often

as they do

without fanfare,

marching softly

in their cotton parade.

Then hear them 

disassemble

into rain,

they themselves

made as much

for blue 

as chalk 

for slate.

For better or worse

like us, clouds

carry their lives 

with them

wherever they go,

even if no sky is ever

the same as another,

they never question

the motives of 

the other.

Maybe if we could

in time

stop needing to make

everything our own,

with no right 

to ownership,

everything on loan,

we might shape

what we give

from even thinner air,

our memories

more than

mere merchandise

abandoned at the fair. 

Nor is it fair to others

to be carting around

our recollections 

like so much

bric-a-brac

at the church bazaar,

when for some,

art is no more

than silk flowers

in a jar.

08/10/21